


the marks humans leave

by landfill_lady



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: (FIGHT ME IT'S CANON), Bisexual Newt Scamander, Cinnamon Roll Newt Scamander, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Scars, aftermath of abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-30
Updated: 2016-11-30
Packaged: 2018-09-02 01:32:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,340
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8646667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/landfill_lady/pseuds/landfill_lady
Summary: Newt can't magic away Credence's trauma, but he can be a shoulder to lean on. And maybe, for now, that's enough.





	

**Author's Note:**

> UNBETA'D DON'T KILL ME
> 
> edit (12/5) -
> 
> chapter one of ['give me the road'](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8714290) is up! thank you all so much for the lovely feedback :)
> 
> basic plot:  
> credence isn't dead after the events of fantastic beasts (the last wisps of him formed back into a person after the aurors' attack), but he is weak, wounded, and hiding from macusa. instead of returning to england, newt stays in america and runs across the recovering credence by chance, and they travel around the country and study magical beasts together (and fall in love).

When Credence wakes up, he's alone in the hotel room. A week ago, he might have panicked, assumed that Mr. Scamander had abandoned him in the night. Might have... lost control.

But Credence is good at noticing things, and one of the things he's noticed in the past six days is than Newt almost never goes anywhere without his suitcase. The same suitcase which is lying mundanely on its side in the middle of the room.

So, instead of panicking, Credence takes a deep, shaky breath, slips on his shoes, and enters Newt Scamander's magical menagerie.

Inside the suitcase, the air smells of must, and strange herbs, and fifty different kinds of animal dung. Not the most attractive scent, but it's also not unpleasant, somehow. The trip down always makes Credence a bit weak in the knees, so he takes a moment to press his eyes tightly shut and breathe in long, shallow lungfuls of it. When he opens his eyes, he feels a bit more grounded.

Newt is standing at a rickety wooden table a couple yards away, hacking up piles of what looks like plucked chicken with a large meat cleaver. This in itself isn't so unusual. What makes the scene striking is the fact that for once he's shucked off his overcoat and jacket, and his ragged shirtsleeves are rolled up to just above his elbows.

There's a long, silvery scar running from Newt's left elbow to just above his wrist, neatly inside the limits of what a properly-fitted suit would cover. Credence has never seen it before, but it looks old - a couple of years, at least. He stares at it, unable to rip his gaze away. Distantly, he tastes bile in the back of his throat.

After a minute or two, Newt notices Credence out of the corner of his eye. He puts down the cleaver and turns to grin at him, waving cheerfully in greeting. The movement makes the scar shift sinuously, like a pale, ragged snake. Credence can't tear his eyes off it.

Newt notices his stare, and looks puzzled for a moment, following the trail of his eyes back to Newt's left forearm. Then his eyes widen with understanding, and his hand moves reflexively to the scar.

"I got this from a dragon," he says, tracing the scar absently with a finger, in the same tone of voice one might use to say  _pass the mustard, please,_ or  _the weather is quite rainy today_. "A Ukranian Ironbelly, back in Europe. Not a full-grown one, thank Merlin, or else I'd've lost my arm. I just got a little too close to one of the youngsters one day." A blush fills Newt's cheeks, and he pulls his free hand away from the scar to rub at the back of his head. "I might have indulged in a bit more firewhiskey than was reasonable on the day in question."

Ignoring the anecdote, Credence reaches out a trembling hand to feel for himself. Newt lets him.

It's rougher than any of Credence's scars, less regular than the thin white bars that cover his palms, arms, and back. As he traces it, Credence feels Newt's eyes on him, searching his face for - something, Credence isn't sure what. He pulls his hand away, cheeks burning, and tries not to meet Newt's searching gaze.

"I have others, you know," Newt says after a moment, in the same conversational manner as before. "Would you like to see them?"

Credence nods jerkily, and Newt unbuttons his shirt and shrugs it to the floor like it's the most natural thing in the world.

He stands there unselfconsciously as Credence gapes at the scars covering his torso.

"Would you like me to tell you how I got them?" he asks, tone still as casual as though he's talking about a particularly nice pair of cufflinks. 

Credence nods again, and Newt's hand moves to trace a large burn scar on his right side. "I got this from a fire crab on Fiji. It set my jacket aflame when I got a bit too close to its burrow." Newt's brow tightens with remembered pain, and he moves his hand to a cluster of small white marks just above his collarbone. "These were erkling darts." Seeing Credence's furrowed eyebrows, he elaborates: "They lurk around the forest in Germany and steal children away. Nasty little elfish things." 

He turns around so that Credence can see his back - pale, freckled, and marred by a cluster of vicious-looking little bite marks on his left shoulder and a large set of claw marks that rake diagonally down from his right shoulder. Newt's fingertips find the bite marks first. "Doxies," he tells Credence cheerfully over his shoulder. "Nasty little blue buggers. Also German, believe it or not."

Newt's hand can't quite reach the claw marks, so he settles for pointing at them. "That one's from a chimera - beautiful beast, quite horrifying. I was quite fortunate it didn't kill me."

Done with the tour, Newt spins back around, snatching his shirt up off the floor as he does.

"Wait," Credence says as Newt shrugs his shirt on, motioning at the large patch of shiny skin over his chest. "What's that one from?"

"Ah," Newt says, looking embarrassed. "Well. That would be the Bundymun." 

"Bundy-?"

"They're a sort of... well, acid-spitting pond scum, I suppose you might say." Newt smiles ruefully. "Not the most exciting adversary, in the grand scheme of things."

"Oh." Credence lapses into silence as Newt finished doing up his buttons, not sure what to say. The taste of bile isn't gone from his mouth, but it's much less vivid than it was before.

"Credence," Newt says after a couple minutes of silence. "May I take your hand?"

Credence nods, surprised and wary. Newt takes his right palm between both hands gently but solemnly. 

"Credence, do you think my scars make me ugly? Do you thing they make me less of a man?"

Credence shakes his head violently, shocked. How could Newt think-?

"Then how could I ever think the same of you?" Newt's voice is deceptively quiet, but his eyes are bright with passion when Credence meets them.

With both hands, Newt turns Credence's hand over so it's palm-up, and brushes the pads of his thumbs over the deep welts in Credence's palm, tender as a kiss. 

“Do you know what these tell me about you, Credence? They tell me you're strong- stronger than me, even. Braver too. You've faced down much worse than an erkling or a manticore, and you've lived through it."

Newt's eyes are warm, and deep, and intoxicating. Credence is suddenly very, very conscious of the fact that their faces are less than a foot apart, and that Newt's warm, rough hands are still gripping his. 

"Mr. Scamander," he says softly, staring into warm hazel eyes. "Do you...?" 

When Credence leans forward, it feels like the bravest thing he's ever done.

Newt lets go of Credence's hand gently, eyes widening, and takes a small step back. "I'm sorry," he says, voice painfully soft. 

"I'm sorry," Credence mutters shamefully, his eyes fixed back on the ground. "I know that I... I mean, that you... You're n-normal. Not l-like me." Mrs. Barebones' harsh voice rings in his ears:  _Normal boys don't look at other boys like that, Credence. It's unnatural. Sinful. You don't want to be a sinner, do you?_

"That's not what I meant." Newt's hand catches Credence's scarred one up again. Startled, Credence meets his eyes again. "One year, how does that sound?" Newt asks. He's flushing horribly, down to the tips of his ears, but he's not avoiding Credence's gaze. He doesn't look disgusted. 

"Wait one year, and then ask me again. I think - I hope that I might be able to give you a different answer, then."

As Credence drops his eyes from Newt's face to their hands, linked together, his face splits unbidden into the first smile he's shown in what feels like years. 

A year. Credence can wait for a year.

 

**Author's Note:**

> title from a quote by john green: "the marks humans leave are too often scars."


End file.
